High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

“You know what this is, Mister Badass Russkie Criminal? An M-84 stun grenade. A flash bang. It’s a non-lethal weapon. Unless…”

He slipped on evidence gloves, deftly passing the grenade from one hand to another. My eyes were fixed on the pins, making sure they were still there.

“What are you doing, you goddamned faggot!?” It was Bogdan’s voice and he was not happy.

Cartwright had unbuckled the Russian’s pants and dug a hand down in his crotch.

“I wanted to see what you had down there, little guy. Here’s the deal, this is a non-lethal weapon unless I set it off between your legs.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Now open your mouth.”

“Fuck mmmfff…”

Cartwright pulled the secondary safety pin and slipped it in Bogdan’s mouth as he started to curse.

Next Cartwright rattled off a long sentence in Russian—the only word I could make out was “Apache”—and Bogdan’s shoulders stiffened. He frantically struggled against the shackles, getting nowhere.

“Yeah,” Cartwright said in English, “You cocksuckers didn’t know the red savage could speak Russian.” He looked at me. “I told him he’s about to get some high-tech Apache justice. When I let go of the safety, we’ll have enough time to leave and then Bogdan’s manhood is going to be turned into pudding.”

This was not the Reid interrogation technique. A very long half-minute passed in silence. Bogdan’s face shone with a layer of sweat.

“Go to hell.”

He spat out the little metal triangle.

I looked at Cartwright and mouthed, What are you doing? He ignored me and pulled the primary pin.

It hit the floor, making a sound reminiscent of a tuning fork. Cartwright used one hand to hold the Russian back against the seat, while the other, slipping out of the blue sling, inserted the grenade between his legs.

“That’s it, Bogdan. It’s live. Look on the bright side. You’ll never have to worry about prostate cancer.”

To me: “Take down that poster. I wouldn’t want to lose it when this thing burns down and the gas tank blows up. Do it!”

I pulled the poster down and rolled it up. Loudly.

Cartwright said, “Time’s up,” and started to flex back his arm, letting go of the grenade.

“Stop, stop!” This from Bogdan.

“Why?” Cartwright said.

“I’ll tell you. Get that thing away from me. I want to have children! Get it away.”

He slowly pulled out the grenade.

I picked up the primary pin and handed it to Cartwright, who inserted it. He smiled and tossed the thing at me.

I caught it.

The grenade was wet with Bogdan’s urine.

Chapter Twenty-four

“They’ll kill me if they know I talked.”

It was ten minutes later, after Cartwright had redone the Russian’s handcuffs so his hands were in front, in his lap. A little reward for cooperation. He was stretching his arms and rolled his shoulders. But he remained shacked to the floor, blindfolded, and buckled in.

“You’d better worry about your nuts staying attached to your body,” Cartwright said. “Nobody’s going to know about our conversation. I killed your associates.”

“You say. There are more. And they always know.”